


an educated guess

by doofusface



Category: Mr. Iglesias (TV)
Genre: F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gen, Idiots in Love, Male-Female Friendship, Teacher-Student Relationship, these classmates are PRIME, we love these dummies yes we do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:34:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21623074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doofusface/pseuds/doofusface
Summary: She knows the answer is no.She knows this.She’s flipped it around in her head enough times—nota lot, in case you were wondering—and sheknows.Marisol Fuentes doesnothave a crush on Mikey Gutierrez.
Relationships: Marisol Fuentes & Gabe Iglesias, Marisol Fuentes & Mikey Gutierrez & Walt & Lorenzo & Rakeem Rozier & Grace Lee, Marisol Fuentes/Mikey Gutierrez, Rakeem Rozier/Grace Lee (implied)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 152





	an educated guess

Marisol is the kid you go to for answers.

Group studying between jobs, light drilling between classes.

History, math, science, English, Spanish—checked, loaded, set.

And yet.

 _So_ , so bad at knowing the answer to a simple question asked over lunch, between the yard’s trees, in front of the school doors.

“Do you like Mikey?”

(It’s Grace asking.)

(Somehow, that makes it worse.)

“Uhh… _no_ …” Marisol says, drawled a little and uneven a lot. Her jaw hangs open. “Why?”

“No reason. Other than the fact that I finally found something you don’t know a lot about.”

“Hey!” Pause. “What?”

“Yourself,” Grace says ominously, taking her tray and ditching her friend, mostly for dramatic effect. “Later!”

“Grace!” Marisol calls, frowning. “Hey, what? I know me! I _am_ me! _Grace_ _!_ ” 

(It’s a short jog with an empty tray and a third of what was left of her gross lunch stuffed into her mouth before she can catch up with Grace, but by then the damage is done.

Marisol refuses to think about the puppy dog currently entering her field of vision from the right, with his puppy dog eyes and the tiny smile he saves for her and _no, hey, stop that, focus!_ )

(…Dang it, Grace.)

* * *

She knows the answer is no.

She knows this.

She’s flipped it around in her head enough times— _not_ a lot, in case you were wondering—and she _knows_.

Marisol Fuentes does _not_ have a crush on Mikey Gutierrez.

He’s not so quick on the uptake. And he’s easily distracted. And he’s not exactly brave. And he follows her around, constantly, unceasingly. 

He’s tiring. He _tires_ her.

And that’s, like, the _shortest_ Cons List she can think of for any of the boys in her school, but that does _not_ mean that she likes him.

It just means he has a good Pros List. Comparatively.

Like, he’s sweet. Sensitive. And he tries really hard when he’s got motivation. And he _listens_ to her, and to other sensible people—and, by that token, can tell when someone’s a sensible person.

He’s loyal. He’s funny. He’s her biggest cheerleader. He’s her friend, and a really good one.

… _Not_ that dating and feelings are all about pros and cons. Which is why her lists proves nothing. Because she does _not_ like Mikey Gutierrez in _That Way_ , not even a little bit.

* * *

(She tosses the lists into the first trash bin she sees—shredded beyond measure, for, uh, no reason.)

* * *

“Where’s Mikey?”

(It’s been two weeks since Grace brought up the Cursed Question, and it’s like the girl _remembers_ the exact day, because when Marisol’s mouth betrays her slight worry with that inquiry, Grace coughs, “Knew it.”)

(Marisol hates today more than most Thursdays.)

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Mr. Iglesias says casually, officially marking him absent after the 15-minute mark passes. “He’s got a lot of antibodies from the wildcat thing.”

Marisol sneaks a text while her teacher starts off the day’s lesson:

_You ok?_

* * *

(Mikey doesn’t reply.)

* * *

Her phone _buzzes_ before she gets to Job #1:

_flu. missed you._

(Her heartbeat does _not_ skip.)

_Buzz._

_i mean you guys******_

_Buzz._

_everyone!!!!!_

_Buzz._

_not just you_

_Buzz._

_i mean i missed you too but_

_Buzz._

_uh_

_Buzz._

_im gna go back to sleep now_

* * *

She smiles.

* * *

_I missed you too_

* * *

_We**_

* * *

Five days later, Lorenzo stares at her like she just denounced the Civil Rights Movement.

She frowns. “What?”

“You’re gonna lie straight to my face?” he says, pitch rising. “Does our friendship and alliance against government surveillance mean _nothing_ to you?”

“Dude,” she says, five times more tired than when their conversation started. “I don’t _like_ Mikey.”

“You just asked him to be your escort,” he says through gritted teeth, wide-eyed and several levels of Losing It. “Literally, just now, right in front of me—you just asked him to be the guy you’d spend the _most_ time with at your _quinceañera_.” He grabs her by the shoulders. “ _Ma’am_.”

“He’s the only one my mom can understand,” Marisol says, matter-of-fact. She rolls her eyes. “It’s not a big deal.”

“ _You_ know,” Lorenzo says, a finger pointed at her face, “and _I_ know how big this deal is.”

_RIIIIIIIING!_

She shrugs him off and heads to class. “It’s a budget _quince_ and a good friend as my _chambelan de honor._ It’s not the end of the world.”

“Isn’t it?” he says as she walks off. “ _ISN’T IT?!_ ”

* * *

(It isn’t.)

(It’s just that when she brings it up all cool-like to Mikey:

“You should, you could, um, at my _quinceañera—you—it_ would be great, I’d really appreciate it, um, if you’d escort me? You can actually talk to my mom, andifthisistooweird, you can say no? But I’d—it would be a _huge_ favor—”

And he’d yelped:

“ _Yes_ _!_ ”

Maybe she’d beamed, instantaneously, like a kid getting the present they actually wanted that year.)

* * *

(Whatever.)

(Lorenzo likes to see what isn’t there, anyway…)

(Psh…)

* * *

For the record, Mr. Iglesias being her favorite teacher means nothing to her after he, too, like a _Nice Person Turns Out To Be Evil_ plot twist, dares to ask her _during her quinceañera_ : “Did I miss something? Are you dating Mikey now? How come I didn’t get an invite to the first date? I’m a great chaperone, you know.”

She very nearly damages her dress with her automatic _clenched fist_ reaction, but thankfully it’s still clean, pristine, and ready to return after this party says goodnight.

She glares at Mr. Iglesias. “He’s my friend.”

“You know, usually the celebrant picks a responsible person as escort,” he says between bites on food. 

“Mikey’s responsible!”

(Grace hears her.)

( _Ugggghhhhhhhhh_.)

“That’s generous on a school day,” Mr. Iglesias says, watching his most earnest student converse with Marisol’s family from afar. “But here? I believe you.” _Munch_. “Man, if we had anyone in your family as faculty, he might be an honors kid by now.”

“He’s trying,” Marisol says, but it’s distracted, and there’s a smile similar to the one she had when Mikey’d said that he wasn’t _the only one here with a crush!_

Mikey turns his head, as if hearing their conversation.

She thinks: _He looks nice in a rental tux._

Then: _…Wait, what?_

And her favorite teacher says: “Oho-ho…I’ve seen enough romcoms to know _that_ look.”

“What look?” Marisol says, _pffft_ ing.

“The one where the girl realizes she’s in love with her childhood friend instead of the seemingly perfect Prince Charming from act two,” Mr. Iglesias says, not missing a beat.

She spins around, shaking her head.

“Hey, the girl does _that_ , too!” he adds barely above the music, grinning as she walks semi-calmly back to her escort. “Ignores the smart, objective friend because it’s uncomfortable!” 

* * *

“What was Mr. Iglesias yelling about?” Mikey asks when they’re dancing together—it’s a _thing_ , okay, it’s _part_ of the _quince_ —and their teachers keep making not-so-subtle teasing faces at the two of them from the sidelines.

(If she could kick them out, she would. 100%. But they’re a big reason of why she’s even having this party, so rough.)

Marisol trips a little on her own two feet—so much regret tonight—and grips his hand a little tighter.

For, y’know, balance.

“You okay?” he asks, real sweet and real concerned. They slow down a bit.

“Yup,” she says, clearing her throat when she catches his gaze. It takes her three tries to look away. “He was just making a joke. The uszh.”

“Oh? What was it?”

 _Ahem_. “Ah, it wasn’t—it wasn’t that funny, really, ha.” _Cough_. “What’d my mom say?”

Mikey beams. “She’s really happy that you could celebrate this. _And_ that it’s basically free.”

Marisol scrunches up her nose. “That’s it?”

He shrugs.

“ _Mikey_ ,” she says, raising a brow.

“…She’s really proud of you,” he says, turning red for some reason.

Marisol smiles again, and her chest starts to feel impossibly warm.

Mikey clears his throat, ducks his head, and leans in the tiniest bit closer. 

(Is something flying in her gut?)

“I—um,” he stumbles, smile twitching on and off. “I’m proud of you, too, you know? Like, not just with school and work and stuff. You’re great, Marisol. You tell it like it is. You still want to stay and help us. And when you believe in something, you stick with it, no matter what.”

(Maybe a lot of somethings?)

“…Oh,” she says, cheeks tight from smiling. “That’s—you, um—” _Ahem._ “…Thanks, Mikey. That’s…that's sweet.”

* * *

(Ha.)

* * *

(Yup.)

* * *

(Walt manages to snap a pic that is so damning to this moment and whatever feelings she associates with it that she just flat-out refuses to acknowledge it even exists, muting the post so every message commenting on how _cute you guys are! aww!!!_ doesn’t have to flood her notifications on every social media platform she’s on.)

* * *

(Asking Grace to hack his account and remove it would be worse, so muting is about the best she can do.)

* * *

There’s something fishy going on in class, and Marisol’s determined to use it to ignore the _Time Has Stopped_ feeling she keeps getting whenever Mikey sends a dumb smile her way or tries to impress her with something objectively unimpressive.

(For the record, the frequency of him doing so has only _risen_ since her birthday last month, and she’s not sure how to handle everything going on at once.)

Surprise, surprise—it’s a huddle involving Walt at the center, and the impending annual Woodrow Wilson Formal’s fliers strewn across (and around) his desk point to a clue.

Mikey frowns, digs his brows together, and gives her a look that’s more confused than usual.

 _I don’t know_ , she mouths, because class is about to begin and using her voice might start up a longer conversation and she _can’t_ handle that right now.

* * *

“Marisol Fuentes, will you go to the Formal with me?”

He’s down on one knee, and it’s lunch, and the hallway isn’t full, exactly, but it’s got enough people watching that she’s getting ready to throw down with this boy for daring to do this right now, right here.

And with Mikey in the crowd, no less.

Walt raises his brows, waiting for an answer.

“No,” she coughs out, after the shock wears off.

“What? Why not?” Walt frowns.

“‘Cause. I’m.” Great, she’s panicking.

“You’re…?”

“‘ _Cause I’m_ … uh… I’m… going with…” _Don’t say it, do_ not _say it—_ “…Mikey?”

(Walt can wait to die because she has to murder herself first.)

“Oh, okay,” Walt says, immediately back on his feet and shrugging it off like that’s the answer he wanted. “Lots of fish in the sea. And we’re right by the water!”

_Wait a second._

Marisol furrows her brows. “Why aren’t you upset?”

Walt leans close. “‘Cause that was the plan,” he whispers, smirk never leaving as he strolls off to the cafeteria.

Nice. Dug her own grave.

With an audience _still_ in attendance.

Someone gets shoved forward, and the familiar yelp makes her shut her eyes way too tightly before turning around.

Mikey’s flailing on the outside about as much as _she_ is on the inside.

“That—that, uh—” he stammers, both hands trying to gesture back at Walt and not really succeeding, “—for real?” _Gulp._ “With _me?_ ”

Marisol is _fully_ aware that this is a set up, and that crowd pressure is a thing, but…

“Yeah,” she breathes more than says, an exhale and a sigh rolled into one, simple word. She digs her hands into her back pockets, nodding a few more times than a Calm & Collected person would. “Yeah, I’m. Y’know.” She gestures at him. “If you are?”

(She’s gonna find out whose fault this is, and she’s not helping them with homework for the next week.)

“Oh, I’m—yeah, uh-huh,” Mikey nods back, that slack jawed, awestruck face of his blushing red. He mirrors her earlier gesture. “If, uh, if you’re sure?”

(Crowd pressure! She hates it!)

“N-no pressure,” he adds hastily, glancing around with…annoyance? “Can you guys give us some privacy?” he says, frowning at the other students.

A beat.

“ _Now?_ ” he says, much louder, and Marisol’s actually impressed.

…And, like, slightly disappointed that she didn’t do that herself.

Mikey doesn’t turn back to her until every step’s echoed off, and when he does he’s got a shy little smile.

“No pressure,” he repeats, and he shrugs. “You can let me down, easy or not.”

Marisol frowns, stilling.

 _Oh_ , is the first thought that pops up.

 _Why would you think that?_ is the second.

“I already told you I’d go if you go,” she says, not quite hitting “nonchalant” with the softness of her tone.

He clicks his tongue. “I know you. Seriously. You don’t have to go with me, Marisol.”

“Has it ever occurred to you that maybe I want to?”

* * *

(Someone _please_ make her _shut_ _up_.)

* * *

 _Blink._ “…No?”

* * *

 _Ahem_. “Well,” she says, kicking out playfully. “I do. So.”

* * *

“Oh.”

* * *

(They never actually make it official in the high school tradition sense, but there’s no denying they’re not Just Friends when they show up to the dance hand-on-arm and spend most of it together, laughing at almost nothing and smiling softly when they catch each other’s eyes.)

* * *

By the time summer— _real_ summer this time, without catch-up classes and the threat of counseled-out letters—is within reach, Mikey’s permanently “lost” his grey-and-green and grey-and-blue hoodies, and identical ones have been _mysteriously_ popping up in photos of Marisol from outside of class. 

(Grace, of course, keeps a tidy, tallied database for such occurrences.)

Sure, the explanation of “getting cold” when staying too long at the library _could_ be valid, but Marisol helped a whole host of Drip Tray Musketeers™️, and it’s not like Walt or Rakeem were lending her their jackets for extended stays.

And, like, she always had her own jacket. Because she’s responsible. Because she’s Marisol.

So.

“Soft Mike’s dating Marisol,” Rakeem says, shaking his head. He leans back in his seat. “Mm-mm. Never thought I’d see the day.”

“I’m _right here_ ,” Marisol says from the head of the table, not looking up from the worksheet in her hands. “I can hear you. And that’s not accurate.”

“Sure, Mari,” Grace says from beside Rakeem. “And _Poly_ has a shot at _beating_ us next year. _Sure_.” She raises a fist, and Rakeem bumps it. 

Marisol flattens her lips down to a thin, tight line. “Do you have the answer to number five yet?”

Walt passes her his paper. He smirks. “It’s ten.”

“So wrong,” Marisol deadpans, looking it over. She circles a few things in his calculations. “And if everyone’s done with their conspiracy theories—”

(Lorenzo coughs.)

“— _except Lorenzo_ —we can look over why Walt’s wrong and how to actually get the right answer so we don’t bomb our finals.”

(Grace looks like she’s about to make yet another burn, but she clamps her mouth shut at the last second.)

A beat.

(One last person walks into the library, and when he waves at his friends, Lorenzo immediately raises his brows at Marisol.)

“Great,” Mariso says, clearing her throat as Mikey takes his seat across her. She fixes the papers, avoiding eye contact. “Back to work.”

* * *

(Mr. Iglesias waggles his brows at her like a cheeky younger brother when Mikey gets a B+ in his class.

She gives him a decreasing number of fries every time he hits the drive thru.)

* * *

Okay.

_Okay._

There might be an issue here.

Not…not a _crush_. Marisol refuses to call…this… _that_.

But okay.

There is definitely an issue.

Related to Mikey sending her texts about random things that remind him of her. Over summer. While she’s at work.

And them making her kinda. Happy.

( _Kinda._ )

And making her long days less long.

And maybe sometimes she watches his Twitch streams.

(On anonymous.)

(Grace is still there and still watching, okay?)

(And it isn’t a crush.)

(It’s just…)

(It’s just a _thing_.)

* * *

And maybe.

Like.

If she’s being critical.

And honest.

_Maybe._

Maybe that’s just how it’s always been.

Even with the 75 texts when she switched decathlon teams.

 _Especially_ when he laughs too loud and too hard at something that’s only mildly funny, and turns to check if _she’s_ laughing, too.

Every time he snaps out of That Look, only to replace it with a softer, shyer, more apologetic smile.

Maybe if she’s being honest, it wasn’t the jobs, or the homework, or any other viable boys that took up her “dating” time.

Maybe she wasn’t too busy, or too tired, or anything else she could use as an excuse.

Because that’s always easier, right? Ignore the problem. Hope it goes away. Suck it up if it doesn’t.

* * *

But.

* * *

Maybe it was just Mikey, for no reason…or for all of them.

Just Mikey.

All along.

* * *

(It hits her in the middle of Mr. Iglesias paying for his order at the drive thru after he gets back from his road trip.

And yes, _he knew_ , somehow, like a romcom guardian angel, and yes, she threw the takeout bag at him, and yes, she refuses to acknowledge his presence until school starts back up again.)

* * *

“ _So you’re doing this before school starts?_ ”

“Yeah.”

Grace nods approvingly, the towel on her head threatening to topple. “ _Get it, girl!_ ”

“Sometimes I love that you talk now and sometimes it makes me question why I hang out with you,” Marisol says, raising a brow.

“ _Um, duh—who else can hack Hernandez’ files and change his assembly speeches last minute?_ ”

“Mm. I was gonna say ‘cause you care, but I’ll take it.”

“ _Aww!_ ”

“Hey,” Marisol says, shaking her head slightly. “Have fun on your date.” Pause. “…Don’t try anything crazy.”

“ _I don’t know what you’re talking about._ ”

“Please don’t take over the jumbotron. You can’t go to jail. We’re _juniors_ now.”

“ _…_ _ _O_ nly because you asked nicely,_” Grace mutters, waving at the camera. “ _I’ll text you!_ ”

“Don’t hack my phone!”

“ _Byeee!_ ”

“Grace, I’m serious—”

_Click._

“Well,” Marisol frowns, staring at her phone screen. “This sucks.”

* * *

Probably not the best idea to get her plan in motion through text, but _last_ time she called Mikey, all she could hear was his older sister teasing him incessantly.

So:

_Hey, you free tom?_

Then, immediately:

_yeah!_

And:

_Meet me after work?_

* * *

(Who even holds their breath for these things?)

* * *

(And with Mikey, why would she even need to?)

* * *

_ok! ill bring snacks_

* * *

Marisol shoves the uniform back into her backpack.

It’s a hot day—way too hot to be bussing tables at an open air restaurant, but at least it made the patrons a little more sympathetic with tips.

(Or worse. A few of them were _way_ worse.)

Six to seven on her watch, and all she’s trying to do is not _bolt_ —Mikey’s going to be five minutes late, so she’s going to sit right here, on this bench, and pretend she doesn’t want to kiss his face repeatedly, for the next eleven minutes.

By minute two, she’s wondering if this is even a good idea. Maybe he’ll spontaneously combust? It’s hot out and he’s about to hear something he’s _obviously_ wanted to hear for a while.

Wow, what if she kills him? Marisol Fuentes, the Death of Mikey Gutierrez. 

Best school headline ever. Entirely accurate, will surprise no one.

But _imagine—_

“Uh, Marisol?”

Oh.

She blinks, and there he is—her squire dropout in a dumb t-shirt and shorts, and wielding two cups of ice cream from that place he knows she likes from inside the mall.

Mikey Gutierrez.

Death of Marisol Fuentes.

“You’re early,” she says, smiling yet surprised.

“Nah, you were just zoned out,” he laughs, sitting down beside her. He holds out the cups. “I got cookies and cream and pistachio. Dunno which one you felt like today.”

 _Hoooo_ ly. “You must really love me.”

He smiles. “Yeah, I do…” Blink. “…ooo you see that? Plane? In the sky?” _Cough_ . “Whuh— _ha_ , so cool, just flying, just—look, right u— _mmp!_ ”

* * *

(Yeah, okay, she _had_ a whole speech prepared—about how he’s a typical high school boy minus the meanness, and how he’s all over the place, and how sometimes that extends to her thoughts.

How he’s nice, and kind, and takes Mr. Iglesias’ life lessons to heart, even when he doesn’t show it too well. How he’s got a separate memory storage all for facts about her and it’s _still_ kinda weird, but that’s life when you like someone.

How she knows he sucks at _Fortnite_ , but he loves it anyway. How he almost had a heart attack when she first wore his hoodies to school. 

How she found out from Grace that he tried to find her dad for her _quince_.

How he genuinely loves talking to her mom, even though she’s _sure_ he’s getting smack for not having a job.

How she thinks he’s less “dirtbag” or “wildcat,” and more “boyfriend” or “long-term.”

How she wants to hold his hand.

How she wants to tell him things.

But, like, _geez_.

Sometimes you bring someone ice cream after they have a trash day at (one of) their summer job(s), and sometimes they like you enough to kiss you while the sun sets.)

* * *

“What, _still_ no invite?” Mr. Iglesias says, _first thing_ , like the Embarrassing Dad that he is, on the _first day_ of school, when she _first_ walks in.

“Listen,” Marisol says, one hand up in defense and the other waffled to Mikey’s. “ _You_ left for wrestling. It’s _your_ fault.”

“Yeah, Mr. Iglesias,” Mikey says, leading them to their seats. “If you and Mr. Ochoa stayed, you coulda come to the barbecue.”

“You missed all the peer pressure for PDA,” Marisol laments jokingly.

“What do you think high school’s for? Peace and harmony?” Mr. Iglesias scoffs, watching them sit and move closer together immediately. “Wow. Very happy for you two. But not sure if I’m going to regret this for the rest of the year.”

Mikey laughs. “ _Ha_.”

Marisol smirks. “ _Def_.”

* * *

Grace jokingly sticks a paper on Marisol’s desk before next period.

_Do you like Mikey?_

* * *

(Marisol gets it framed.)

**Author's Note:**

> please for the love of all that is good LET A LATINX CORRECT ME ON THE QUINCE TERMS. I DON'T TRUST GOOGLE.
> 
> @doofwrites on the twit and tumbls, hmu
> 
> much love <3 God bless you today my friends


End file.
